| That burning feeling.
|
| Red liquids.
|
| Clear liquids.
|
| Blessed are the sick.
|
| Children shiver in the river.
|
| Where is our god now?
|
| Does he watch over all in El Segundo?
|
| He don’t lie when he say,
|
| Under.
|
| I’m wasting away.
|
| I find time to pine.
|
| When pining away my time.
|
| Within sin
|
| With no redemption
|
| We will find our souls
|
| And the shells they’re kept in
|
| All wasted away.
|
| Blessed are the sick in me.
|
| The prey, the thrill, the chill and we
|
| Are martyrs that crumble on time.
|
| Predestination.
|
| We’ll stop upon dimes.
|
| And hed constructed us all in El Segundo,
|
| As the shivering children pray.
|
| Demons in
|
| Demons out.
|
| Cry for dawn.
|
| Gratis.
|
| Bored.
|
| I’m the matador of the children’s ward.
|
| Beggars wed choosers.
|
| Red sheets.
|
| Bed sheets.
|
| Boozers.
|
| I’m the head fan.
|
| Blessed be my bed pan.
|
| It’s a cold, having just been mugged feeling.
|
| In the sun
|
| I’ve got this for you
|
| It’s under my finger nails.
|
| I brought this for you.
|
| It’s typically Sunday.
|
| I’m digging a hole.
|
| I’ll shut out the world,
|
| I’ll shut out the world,
|
| This is what it’s like to be alone,
|
| This is what it’s like to be alone. |